


Like a Curse, Like a Prayer

by 100demons



Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: Love Confessions, M/M, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-11
Updated: 2015-07-11
Packaged: 2018-04-07 13:54:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,981
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4265697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/100demons/pseuds/100demons
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I’m sorry,” Takao said, “but I think I’m in love with you, Shintarou.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Like a Curse, Like a Prayer

**Author's Note:**

  * For [avarry](https://archiveofourown.org/users/avarry/gifts).



Takao was nearly the last one out of the main gymnasium, lingering by the folding chairs now being gathered up by the lowerclassmen, crushed flower petals and bits of chewing gum wrappers littering the floor underneath. He was eighteen and finally finished with high school and yet he didn’t feel any different than normal. He looked down critically at his hands, his certificate of graduation tucked into the crook of his arm, the flash of his watch glinting on his left wrist. Everything looked exactly as it had this morning, before the ceremony.

“Captain.”

Maybe graduation was something to grow into, like Otsubo’s old title. Eight months ago, he couldn’t have imagined wearing the four on his back; now, he couldn’t imagine leaving it behind.

“What’re you doing, still hanging about?” Takao looked up, his mouth slanting in a grin perfectly honed over the years to get under Midorima’s skin. “Aren’t your parents taking you out to a nice dinner?”

“I could say the same of you,” Midorima responded, unruffled. He was still clad in a black suit jacket, all the buttons still done up and the creases sharp like they’d just been ironed. “I agreed to meet up with my family later tonight in lieu of a meeting with a friend.”

Takao raised an eyebrow. “You blew off your mom to hang out with me? I’d be flattered if I didn’t know better. What kind of ulterior motive do you have hidden up your sleeve?”

The corner of Midorima’s mouth tugged up in a small smile, his green eyes glittering with amusement. Takao leaned forward, instinctively reacting to Midorima’s subtle tells that he’d committed to memory, a phantom ball dancing at his fingertips.

“How would you like to play one last game against me?”

Three years he’d played with this asshole, and still Takao had never quite managed to get the hang of refusing him.

“Fine,” Takao agreed, loosening his tie with one hand. “I’m down with one last chance to finally make you eat shit, Shin-chan.”

Midorima unbuttoned his suit jacket, his taped fingers stark against the black fabric. His mouth flattened into something hard and feral, like it did before every game. Takao shivered, feeling the heat rise in his blood.

“We’ll see about that.”

 

* * *

 

The dust motes danced in the rays of late afternoon sunlight filtering into the basketball gym, bright enough so that the overhead lights could stay off.

Takao set his certificate down by the bleachers, along with his rumpled suit jacket and his unraveled tie. He watched Midorima inspect a rack of balls, dribbling a few experimentally while he finished getting ready, rolling his sleeves up to the elbow.

“Let me know if any of them are deflated, it’s the first years’ job to maintain the balls before and after practice.”

Midorima looked up, his dark hair falling over his eyes. “It’s not exactly _your_ job anymore,” he said, quiet.

“No,” Takao sighed, rocking back onto his heels, feeling the soles squeak against the waxed hardwood floor. “But I can’t help but want to. You find one you like yet?”

Midorima tossed him a ball, the ridges worn smooth by handling. Takao caught it easily, spinning it on the tip of his finger.

“That one,” Midorima said definitively. He shook his hands out in front of him, then began methodically unwinding the tape from his fingers, always starting with his right index finger. It unspooled in delicate white lines onto the floor, revealing long slender fingers ridged with callouses.

Takao looked away, focusing on the feel of the ball against his hands, the vibrations of the floor underneath him echoing his heartbeat as he casually dribbled the ball.

“One on one, full court, first to twenty points wins,” he said, forcing his suddenly dry mouth to move.

“I can give you an initial ten point handicap,” Midorima said almost magnanimously, his voice shading towards something that approximated humour for him and probably would be mistaken for dickish in other people.

“And you can go fuck yourself, Shin-chan,” Takao shot back easily, heartbeat steadying as he fell back into a more familiar, well-worn rhythm with Midorima. “Like you can make those shots without someone setting you up.”

He stepped within the boundaries of the court, and the sound of the ball echoed throughout the entire gym, drowning out everything but the exhilaration rising up in him, reflected back at him in Midorima’s fierce gaze.

“Jump toss for possession?” Midorima suggested, leveling up from low-key asshole to moderate dickhead.

“You want me to just give it to you then?” Takao demanded, tossing the ball from hand to hand as they circled each other at the half-court line. “We’ll do a coin toss or something.” He fished out a 100 yen coin from his pocket. “Heads or tails?”

“Heads,” Midorima said, his green eyes tracking the arc of the coin as it somersaulted in the air and fell into Takao’s waiting palm.

“Tails,” Takao said, gleefully. “So sorry, Shin-chan.” He lunged forward without waiting for a response, reading Midorima’s surprise in the twitch of his right hand, and blew past him and towards the free throw line.

At least, tried to, before Midorima caught up with his freakishly long legs, his hands reaching out for the ball Takao was handling.

“Of course you’d need to resort to low tricks to try and win,” Midorima observed, not even looking out of breath.

Takao cheerfully jabbed him in the elbow as he guarded his ball. “Jeez, how many times has coach told you to stop leaving your side wide open.”

Midorima grunted and muttered a curse underneath his breath, his hands curling under Takao’s arms like an octopus and swiping the ball out with an easy grace, coaxing out a turnover.

Takao clicked his teeth in frustration. All of the things that made Midorima a great teammate made him an absolute monster to play against. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d played against Midorima, not even in practice-- Midorima habitually requested him as his point guard and only occasionally deigned to have one of the lowerclassmen fill in during drills and practice.

It was a strange mix of wet-your-pants terror and things Takao very much didn’t like thinking too much about.

Midorima’s dress shoes squealed against the floor as he changed position, his back arching, arms raising up in the distinctive curve--

Takao charged forward and leapt seconds before the ball launched itself into the air, his fingertips just grazing the underside of the ball. He turned around, heart thudding wildly in his ears, and watched the basketball bounce against the rim and fall onto the floor, score-less.

“Hm,” Midorima said, eyes flashing.

“Well,” Takao grinned at him, suddenly feeling all of fourteen again and back in middle school, living out all of his adolescent dreams of crushing Teikou’s Midorima Shintarou in one heart-stopping moment. “We’ve only been teammates for all of high school, Shin-chan. I’ve probably seen you shoot more three-pointers than anyone else.”

“Let’s see you try that again,” Midorima said, pushing his glasses up the bridge his nose, the lenses turning opaque for a moment with reflected sunlight, and ran for the ball.

Takao couldn’t help but follow, shadowing Midorima’s footsteps, the two of them responding to each other in a push and pull, like the flow of the tides coming in and out. When Takao turned around with the ball in his possession, he was reminded of the fact that Midorima had watched him play for the past three years as well, the two of them falling into a relentless rhythm, circling around the lone basketball.

The net swayed as the ball fell in, the scoreboard above staying blank but the points etching themselves in memory.

**3-0**

“Cancers are ranked first today,” Midorima observed, watching the ball fall through the basket and bounce back towards him at the free throw line.

**6-5**

“In retrospect, starting off this elbowing thing was a bad idea, because I forgot your elbows are sharper than _knives_ ,” Takao hissed, rubbing at a sore spot on his ribs as Midorima smirked.

**10-8**

“You tend to look at the ball for a fraction of a second when crossing between the legs,” Midorima informed him. “It leaves you vulnerable for steals. I‘m sure coach has already informed you to correct this weakness.”

**15-10**

“I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I’m actually glad I ended up hauling you everywhere on that damned rickshaw our first year,” Takao laughed, shoving his sweaty hair out of his eyes. “I feel half-dead on my feet as it is.”

**18-16**

“Two more points until I beat you,” Midorima bit off in between sharp gasps of breath, his white shirt and his hair darkened and dripping with sweat.

Takao stumbled off to the side of the court, cracking open the bottle of water he’d bought and downing half of it, dunking the rest over his already damp head. “You know,” he muttered, wiping his face with his shirtsleeve. “I could be out at a nice Korean restaurant with my family right now, eating my body’s weight in grilled meat and kimchi.”

“Do you regret this?” Midorima asked, slipping off his glasses and wiping at them with a dry corner of his shirt.

Takao looked up, crunching the empty plastic bottle in his hand. He shook his head wildly, beams of light refracting through the scattered water droplets in a shimmering cascade.

“Hell no.” He gave Midorima a giant shit-eating grin and tossed the empty misshapen bottle over to the stands. “You good to go?”

Midorima slid his glasses back onto his nose carefully. “Yes,” he said and the game started up again for the last time.

**19-19**

Exhaustion burned in his limbs, dragging at his reflexes, burning a relentless fire in his chest as he struggled to catch enough breath just to even survive. He couldn’t remember the last time he sucked in air that felt good instead of mind-numbing painful, his heart hammering away in his chest and echoing in his ribs, a deep round throbbing ache that he felt to the very tips of his fingers.

Takao couldn’t remember a time he felt more at peace.

(Perhaps those final few moments before the buzzer rang during the last Interhigh finals, the basketball soaring through the air, stark against the black arch of the dome curving up above them, the entire world framed by Midorima’s pale outstretched arms and the waiting net. In the span of a heartbeat, he caught sight of what almost seemed divine in the flash of Midorima’s glittering green eyes, the arc of the floating ball, a bone-deep certainty grounding him that felt like faith. Words began to well up in his throat, like a curse, like a prayer: _Shintarou_ \--)

Midorima moved smoothly, with an artful precision that Takao had come to learn over the years, until the sight of Midorima with a ball in his hands became as natural as the sun in the sky, the earth underneath his feet. Somewhere in the space between the rest of the world and the hardwood court, Midorima’s long limbs transformed with a lethal grace, layers falling away to reveal sharp edges and razor blade smiles that sleekly sliced through defenses. The long game only made him burn brighter, fiercer, as if the fatigue burnished the light inside him.

“One more point,” Midorima said, crouched beneath his net, the brown basketball weaving in figure eights beneath his long fingers. He was panting hard, glasses slipping down the bridge of his nose and coming perilously close to falling off the edge.

Takao said nothing, watching him carefully.

Midorima tilted his head, sweat beading on the lens of his glasses. Takao narrowed his eyes, observing the rise and fall of Midorima’s chest, the angle of his stance, the line of his arched back.

“Let’s finish this,” he said and Takao snapped into action moments before Midorima even opened his mouth.

He twisted around the fake and lunged for the ball clutched at the tips of Midorima’s fingers, aiming for just the slightest bit of pressure to nudge it out of his possession--

Takao felt his legs give out underneath him as his feet tangled messily with Midorima’s legs, limbs flying everywhere, his face mashing right into Midorima’s sweaty chest, and the ball, the goddamn fucking ball flying midair towards his peripheral vision and then bouncing well out of Takao’s sight.

They hit the ground a heartbeat later, Takao’s elbow slamming against the floor and jarring his funny bone, the ache vibrating up and down the length of his arm like a tuning fork. He flinched from the pain and his head collided with Midorima’s broad chest, their legs twined hopelessly together in a knotted mess.

“I see you’ve now devolved to insults and physical assault to try and win,” Midorima observed, the rumble of his deep voice vibrating through his chest.

His world abruptly shrank from the basketball court to the thin narrow planes of Midorima’s angular face, his body caged underneath sprawling arms and legs and a body that he knew nearly as well as his own, maybe even better. His wide back almost completely blocked out the light, casting Takao in darkness and shadow.

Midorima’s hot breath gusted over Takao’s open throat and he swallowed, thinking very hard about the way he was _not_ pinned underneath the long line of Midorima’s body. He could feel the edge of Midorima’s belt buckle dig into the tender skin of his thigh and he winced, pain bleeding into pleasure and back into pain so quickly his head was spinning. Takao gasped desperately for air, chest heaving, but no matter how much oxygen passed through his lungs, he felt like he was suffocating.

The smirk playing across Midorima’s thin lips faded away into something Takao couldn’t bear to look at.

His fists clenched at his sides-- _keep it fucking together_ , he swore at himself over and and over again, the only shred of his self-control remaining.

Midorima shifted over him him, one hand coming up to just skim the curve of Takao’s shoulders before planting down onto the waxed hardwood floor, the other hovering over the line of his jaw.

Takao froze.

“Hey.” Midorima’s thumb grazed over the pulsepoint in Takao’s throat and he couldn’t help the shivers rippling down his back, the sweet curl of heat rising up in him in echo.

The breath caught in the back of Takao’s ragged throat.

“Are you alright?” Midorima murmured. “You’re being abnormally quiet.” Up close, Midorima’s eyes were nearly black, pupils dilated wide so that only a thin greenish ring circled around it, flecked with bits of brown and gold. “Did you hit your head?”

His hand around Takao’s shoulders slid up to his neck, the back of his head, the gentlest of pressures tugging him downward, until their lips nearly grazed.

Takao leaned in instinctively, almost helplessly as Midorima pushed and he followed, years and years of habit engraved in his bones, memory and routine and something almost like--

“I can’t fucking do this,” Takao snapped and shoved Midorima away, rolling out from underneath him in the same moment. He caught a broken glimpse of Midorima’s wide eyes, green cut glass shattering into something wild and uncertain before he fell away and the world became bigger again, the gymnasium unfolding into view, the late summer sunlight filtering back into his vision.

He staggered to his feet, stitching himself back together with a half-crazed combination of will and terror.

“Kazunari--”

He flinched and ran.

 

* * *

 

The metal of the vending machine felt cool against his forehead, flickering lights playing out over the sun-warmed plastic display pane.

_Kazunari--_

His fingernails dug into the heel of his pams, chasing the blood away. The pain almost felt good, chasing away scattered thoughts and the sound of Midorima’s voice, haunting him at the edges.

Slowly, he uncurled his hands and dug deep into his pockets for change. Something cold, something that would wake him up. He fed the coins into the machine, then mindlessly punched the buttons, feeling the machine rumble to life underneath him before it vomited out his can of iced coffee.

He bent down, reached past the plastic flap covering the opening. His fingers tangled with something warm.

“What…?”

He held the can up to the light.

OSHIRUKO!  
CANNED RED BEAN SOUP  
>>TRADITIONAL FLAVORING<<

"Fuck,” Takao swore, something almost like hysterical laughter bubbling up in the back of his throat. He spiked the can down onto the ground, hearing the metal crunch and tear. It began to leak, slowly, a puddle of reddish purple liquid pooling onto the sidewalk all around the broken remnants of the can.

He sank to his knees and laughed himself sick, his arms wrapped around his chest, his eyes burning with a wet warmth. It was like the universe was just one giant joke, looped over and over again, playing to the sound of Midorima’s voice and against the light glinting off his thin black glasses.

“Is something wrong?”

The laughter died suddenly in his throat.

Takao looked up, his neck stretched all the way back to catch a glimpse of Midorima’s pale face, white underneath the faint sheen of sweat. His hands were still untaped. Off the court, it made him seem almost naked.

“You should probably see to that,” Takao said tiredly, tilting his head towards Midorima’s hands. “I don’t have any tape on me, sorry.”

“That’s not important.” Midorima’s hands curled, uncurled, then curled again into loose fists. His fingers were long and worn with callouses, shaped perfectly to shoot three pointers and drive Takao unceasingly, helplessly mad.

“I’ve never known you to run away from anything, Takao. What’s going on?”

A pause and then-- “Did...I hurt you?”

“ _No_ ,” Takao said instantly, lurching up to his feet and towards Midorima, carried upwards by a sudden ache in his chest. “It’s not you, it’s just--” His momentum faded away and Takao couldn’t remember how to speak, struck dumb by the flash of Midorima’s glasses.

“It’s what?” Midorima snarled, rage lighting up the sharp planes of his face. “You’re not making any sense, Takao. You were fine during the game, until you fell and now I can’t get a straight word out of you. Damn it, you’re the one who keeps harping on about being friends.”

“That’s the problem, you see,” Takao said quietly, lowering his eyes. “I can’t be your friend.”

“...You’re sick, you’ve hit your head. You’re not making any _sense_ ,” Midorima said again, his voice shaking. “What’s going on with you?”

“I’m sorry,” Takao said, “but I think I’m in love with you, Shintarou.”

How unfair was it, Takao thought slowly, his thoughts muddled and plodding, how unfair that Midorima still looked beautiful, even with his face twisted up, his eyes glassy and bloodshot, and how unfair that Takao couldn’t help but love him, still, no matter how much he tried to make it go away.

“I…” Midorima struggled, and maybe it almost would have been funny to see him caught off-balance like this, except Takao was too painfully aware of his heart thudding away in his chest, the strange ringing in his hearing as he tore at the careful illusion he had built up the last three years.

“Since when?” Midorima finally managed, his lips pressed into a thin white line.

“I don’t know,” Takao said, in a low voice. Maybe that first game against Seirin at Interhigh, when Midorima had come alive like he had never before against another opponent; maybe after a basketball practice, every basketball practice, as Takao sat on the sidelines, listening to the rhythmic beat of countless three pointers being shot perfectly into the air; maybe after that loss to Rakuzan, when Takao tasted tears and wasn’t sure if they were his or Midorima’s.

Maybe even before all of that, after that last game in junior high, looking up at Midorima’s wide, impossible back, with tears on his face and sweat on his brow and something burning in his heart. Maybe fury, maybe rage, maybe something even like love taking root in his heart, growing into the tangled, overgrown mess choking the breath out of him now.

“It would be easier, I think, if I just wanted to fuck you,” Takao said roughly, crudely, and some small part of him curled up in delight and shame as Midorima’s cheeks flushed red. “But it’s more than that, and worse than that. I can’t--no, I don’t _want_ to be your friend anymore. I’m sorry.”

He backed away, moving from the long shadow Midorima cast on the ground and into the late afternoon light. For a brief moment, the sun blinded him, scattering bluish green nimbuses across his vision. He blinked them away quickly, wiping angrily at the painful tears springing up in the corners of his eyes.

“I should go,” Takao muttered, looking down on the ground, numbly watching his own silhouette detach itself from Midorima’s. It was better like this, with no more secrets, almost a relief.

He turned his back and began to walk away.

As he stepped over each crack in the sidewalk, he strained his ears, couldn’t help but hope for Midorima’s voice to echo out, for his name to echo in the air, for-- something, anything.

Six steps, twelve, eighteen.

Takao reached the corner.

Nothing.

Takao’s hands tightened into fists and the relief washed away, replaced by a bitter taste in the back of his mouth. Nothing less than he deserved, he silently corrected himself.

“Hey, Kazunari.”

Takao’s head whipped up, just in time to see a basketball float in a perfect arc through the air, stark against the soft orange-tinged blue sky above. The entire world was framed by Midorima’s pale outstretched arms and Takao’s own arms, reaching upwards instinctively to catch the ball, in a strange reversal of their old catch-shoot technique.

The ball settled softly in his cupped hands.

“You forgot something,” Midorima said quietly and Takao rocked back on his feet, startled by his sudden appearance in front of him.

“When did you--” Takao cut his words off with a smile. “You know, I can’t count how many times I’ve seen you shoot the ball now, but each time I can’t help but look up and watch.” He swallowed and looked down at the ball in his hands, tossing it in the air. “I should, uh, go return this to the school.”

“Wait,” Midorima said, the word coming out hard and terse. He reached out jerkily with a hand, all of his former grace falling away now that he was off the court and without a basketball in his hands, his limbs all of a sudden too long and gangly, his fingers too large for a world without three point and midcourt lines.

He grabbed Takao’s shoulder, his touch a warm and familiar weight.

“You forgot something else too,” he said and bent down, pressing his mouth against Takao’s in an awkward kiss.

It was hard and quick, their teeth clicking together, scraping against the skin of his bottom lip. “Sorry,” Midorima whispered, more breath than sound, and pressed a softer, gentler kiss on Takao’s lips, tongue flicking out delicately, carefully, and Takao couldn’t help but yield open. The basketball fell to the ground, heedless, and bounced around their tangled feet, before rolling to a stop just by the crosswalk.

“Since when?” Takao breathed raggedly, finding his hands tangled in Midorima’s sweat-slicked hair, the tails of his wrinkled white button down shirt. Midorima’s hands had moved from his shoulders to the back of his neck, cradling him gently.

“I don’t know,” Midorima murmured back softly, pressing small, tentative kisses along Takao’s jawline. “Maybe five minutes ago, when you confessed, or maybe three years ago, maybe always. Shut up, stop thinking and let me kiss you.”

Takao laughed.


End file.
